Trekking in southern Morocco, Sunday January 11th

Keith woke early and surprised some locals when he appeared at the spring with a bucket to collect water for the toilet. He walked around the area to stay warm. I woke at about eight o’clock when we had breakfast of omelette, tea and bread. We thanked and farewelled the family members and Youssef II, and set off on our trek. The water in some puddles was frozen and the wind was icy cold.

We crossed the road and headed off over the mountains, along a little path that was one person wide. It was a fantastic feeling to have nothing man made in view – just the vast and bleak mountains and their glorious textures and colours. Youssef was walking very fast and I had a little trouble keeping up as I wiped my weeping eyes and dripping nose. We were 2400 metres above sea level, so it was probably my cold that was affecting me, rather than the altitude, but I did feel a little breathless. After a while we passed a village, and could see a part of a long wall. When we asked Youssef about it, he told us that it was the wall that marked someone’s land, where no-one else could go, and that a house would eventually be built in it. Youssef was not very communicative, but he did tell us that he had been very cold in the night.

We walked for quite a long time before we headed downhill and into a gorge. The river rushed along through it and was washing over the stepping stone crossings. At one point we were clambering along the cliff wall, and it was quite difficult for me but I managed with Youssef’s help. Youssef decided that the mountain crossing that he had planned a little further on would be too difficult for me and said that it was no problem because we could go the other way, by the road, at that point. I asked Keith if he would like to go over the mountain with Youssef and I could meet them later coming via the road, but Keith said that we should stick together.

The gorge became narrower and the river crossings more frequent. Soft flaky snow was falling. Youssef was trying to find more rocks so that I could cross at one point when a man on a donkey came along. Later Youssef told me that he was the Immam of the next village; a friend and a neighbour of his aunt. After some talking, the man agreed to take me on his donkey up the gorge to the aunt’s house, where I would wait for Keith and Youssef. Getting me up onto the donkey was a major task, but once I was up there it was quite comfortable because I could put my feet into the open panniers and hold onto the man’s waist. He was wearing a marvellous semi-circular hooded cloak of tightly woven dark brown wool to keep him warm. We trotted away, leaving the others to negotiate the river with their longer legs. The gorge was a different place from the muffled perspective of the back passenger on a donkey, but it was very beautiful, with oleander bushes fringing it in many spots. The Immam made sure that I was holding on well whenever we went uphill and I was in danger of slipping off the back.

It was a surprise to the aunt and her family when we arrived, and I dismounted on a rock outside her door. Nevertheless, she took me into the family room where some boys were watching television. I was deposited there and after a while Youssef and Keith arrived. Youssef had hurried to arrive, leaving Keith behind and unsure of what streets to take or where to go once he came to the village. He had to ask people on the street which way a man had gone.

We met the wives of the aunt’s two sons, one of the sons and the grandchildren, and the Immam was there too. We had a cup of tea and then we seemed to stay on forever. Lunch appeared - a Berber omelette for us and a tajine for the family. There was a warm, friendly atmosphere but the television was showing continuous coverage of the war, in Arabic. We could see the images but understand nothing. The family and Youssef were talking about it. At no stage were we included in any of the conversations, so it was a bit like watching a play rather than having any part in it. The only time Youssef spoke to us was to say ‘Happy?’ or to answer a direct question from us. Eventually I coaxed a little boy called Mohamed to come and sit on my knee, and then we were a little included because motherhood is revered and respected everywhere. He was the sweetest little boy and just snuggled in.

We set off again, coming out of the gorge and up onto the road not far from where we had caught the bus the day before. Youssef walked ahead of us and only spoke if we asked him something. It was not so far to the village where we had had a glass of tea the day before so we were surprised when he suggested stopping there for tea. We said that we didn’t need any and could walk on, but if he wanted to have a rest, that that was fine too. We stayed there for ages while Youssef caught up on the hash smoking that he had missed during the morning, due to having run out. He talked with his friends, and with us to push further tours. He said that snow on these mountains meant that the road to Marrakesh would be closed for the bus, but that he could drive us and we could stay at his friend’s place. We said that we would be taking the bus in the morning to Marrakesh and that we would not be taking any other tours. If the bus couldn’t go, we would wait for one that did. From this point on, the lack of effort towards us seemed to degenerate into disinterest and even contempt. Perhaps he had seen us as rich tourists who could be milked for more and he was disappointed, but lack of sleep may have been affecting him too. At any rate, he asked me for medication for the absent shop keeper who had a headache so I handed over my only three paracetamols. After that we were just sitting there waiting for him to finish, as precious walking time passed by.

At last we left and from then on we seemed to be perpetually about five metres behind him, no matter how fast we walked. At one point he stopped to make another walking baton for Keith but I explained that we could not take them away with us even if we wanted to, because of the Australian regulations. We were now in the country we had walked in yesterday, and it was different, yet just as beautiful, seeing it from the other direction. We walked on and on and on. When Youssef stopped to go to the toilet, he told us to just keep going up the road. We walked for at least three kilometres without him, which gave us a chance to discuss his behaviour. Ultimately we thought that it is best to have some time with a guide before employing him, to check that he is able to be the sort of guide that you want and that your combined language skills would be adequate. The fit here with us wasn’t perfect, with all of us speaking only some French, and us wanting more that just someone to follow into unknown country. No doubt the people who wrote in his comments book had had great times, with different expectations from the beginning.

When Youssef caught up with us, he suggested that we flag a ride if possible. That seemed a good idea since it looked as if we might not make it back before dark. No passing vehicles stopped for a lot further, but we kept walking on. Eventually we were lucky and, piled into a taxi, we were driven at least six kilometres, but maybe more, to Youssef’s village. We scrambled back up the hill to his place and gratefully warmed ourselves by the heater. His sister-in-law had prepared a delicious meal so we had an early dinner. Keith paid the last part of the trekking fee. Youssef said that we could repack our bags and give him things that we didn’t need – ‘for the poor’. He said that we could give him our medications since they are expensive here. We could also give him some money for continuing his building projects and that hat is what tourists do.

It was when we discussed the bus that the atmosphere completely changed and Youssef turned nasty. He said that we would need to book tickets that night for the bus in the morning, with the best one being at 7 a.m. He could drive in and do it, for an exorbitant cost that he claimed was only for petrol. He also gave the bus ticket prices at way above what we expected them to be. He was so nasty when we queried the prices that I just wanted to get on the first bus and leave. I did ask him what would happen if we gave him the money he claimed was the cost of the tickets and it turned out to be less. He said that he would give us back the difference. You can see by this that we no longer trusted him. We gave him the money and he left to buy the tickets.

When he returned he told me that the price he had told us was the correct one but that he had been able to get it cheaper as a Moroccan. I did not really believe that since it was a big company and not just a private bus company. He asked me to give him Keith’s walking boots while Keith was in the shower but I refused. The bus tickets had the price written on them. When Keith asked for the change, about $A20, Youssef said that he was keeping it as a charge for the trip to take us to the bus tomorrow. It all went downhill from here, with us reminding him that that was included in the original agreement and him saying that we could make our own way there since it would be too early for him to take us unless we gave him more money. We were ten kilometres from town in a place with only occasional passing taxis. He raved on about his costs, and what he had paid the families and how we should pay more, particularly aiming it at me, as possibly the softer touch. He went on about being a poor man, as if that gave him the right to be dishonest. In the end he agreed to take us, and said that we could knock on the house door to wake him up. He told us all about other generous tourists again, and I said that we were not other people. He left, but almost immediately popped back to remind us to give him things for the poor and some money to help with his buildings.

We were completely nonplussed and the ugly scene left us feeling very uncomfortable. Even though he had not been the greatest guide for us, we had enjoyed the trekking. We had paid him a lot of money for what the tour turned out to be, but we had chosen to do that. Now we felt that we were dealing with an unscrupulous man who to some extent had us in his power. We couldn’t understand why he had suddenly agreed to drive us for no extra cost, although Keith thought that perhaps he still hoped we would give him more money. I was glad that I was not alone in this situation, since Youssef had been quite aggressive and overpowering. We went to bed, but not to sleep, as each of us re-ran the conversations and thought of what we should do. At last I dropped off but Keith worried on. At 3 a.m. he asked me if we could just leave very early and take our chances on other transport, since he never wanted to see Youssef again. I had thought that we could report him to the tourist police if he tried any more tricks and I wanted him to say ‘Happy?’ so that I could say that I was not. We decided to do Keith’s plan, and if no-one came by, to put mine into action.

A Berber nomad hut: sheep and shepherd share the same space for warmth during the night. There is not enough feed for the sheep to stay for long in one place.

El Kalaa des Mgouna, Morocco, Saturday January 10th

Keith and Christine would love to hear from you with questions, comments, personal news and any news at all from Australia or wherever you are. We will reply to all emails! Please write to either windlechristine@gmail.com or windle.keith@gmail.com

Youssef collected us and drove us to his house where we left our big packs. We would stay there on Sunday night and leave early for the bus on Monday morning. We had the inevitable cup of tea before we left.

It was exciting to be scrambling down the hill and onto the road, setting off on a two day trek into beautiful country. The distances were realistic, with about 16 km today and 19 or so tomorrow, and with our recent walk at the Todra Gorge, we knew that we could handle them. It was cold to start with but we walked at a brisk pace and I was soon stripping off. The area is really lovely, with the bare mountains showing every kind of geological change. The light shining on ridges and casting other areas into shadow and the changing colours of pink to almost red gave us constantly interesting views. We walked along the river and through the gardens. Youssef said that the gardens no longer support Berber families and that they have to buy some provisions from markets. Men were working in the fields, turning over the ground with short handled spades with the blade at an acute angle. Tamarisks were grown to be coppiced, and they and the prunings from the olives and figs provided fuel for cooking. Lucerne, wheat and various vegetable crops were grown between the trees and roses. The men’s puppy followed us until it was driven back by Youssef.

An old lady sat at the doorway of a walled house and yard, and Youssef asked her if anyone was home. The family was out working in the fields, but we were able to go in to use the toilet. When I held out my hand in greeting to the old lady she ignored it. Youssef told me that she was blind, so I reached down to her hand and took it as I spoke. She spoke to me in Berber which I didn’t understand. There are four forms of the Berber language in Morocco, and everyone learns Arabic at school. Children start on French at third class level in primary school and on English at secondary school, called college here. Many older people speak only Berber and Arabic. We left the old lady sitting on her step and continued on.

We passed by a village where we could hear the sound of a celebration, which Youssef said was a wedding. At last we came to a house that seemed to grow out of the gorge wall. We entered and met some friends of Youssef’s. We were taken around to a locked building which had rugs and cushions in it, as well as a strange little tree ornament. Youssef’s friend brought us some tea and mostly we were alone drinking it. We didn’t realise that this was the lunch stop since it was quite early. Once Youssef said that we would be having lunch, I reminded him that we did not eat meat or fish. The man brought in a delicious Berber omelette and bread. Knives and forks are not used here. The food is presented on a communal plate and pieces of flat bread are used to scoop it up. Through the window we could see a woman digging up carrots in the garden on the flats below. She gave them to Youssef to deliver to her mother up in the mountain village where we would be staying the night. Youssef’s friend is also building on areas for tourists to stop and eat at and also an area for a craft shop.

As we left, we passed a woman washing the clothes in the canal. There is a great system of canals everywhere, with water taken from the river upstream and fed through very small canals to irrigate the farmlands. I was so busy watching her that I slipped and fell quite heavily. I scratched my thigh and tore a hole in my pants. Of course I said that it was nothing, and walked on.

Youssef helped me in the tricky parts where it required a very long step or the ability to walk on a ledge or near vertical rocks. Keith had no problems at all and enjoyed any parts that were challenging. We crossed the river on rickety little bridges a couple of times and on rocks at others. Youssef took a long cane from a pile and broke it and cleaned it to make me a Berber walking stick. It was excellent, being very strong but light. Eventually we left the canal edges and gardens and returned to the road. Although not as interesting, we did pass through villages and see more people. Women and children were carrying great loads of wood and animal feed on their backs. Some men were working on canal repairs. People were walking along the road and some were simply resting beside it on rocks. The mountains continued to dominate the scenery and along with the river, and at one stage the confluence of two rivers, provided constantly changing and mesmerising vistas.

Another stop was at a village café where we had more cups of tea. The owner was a tall, gaunt man in a dark woven cloak. He sat opposite his shop in a patch of sunshine against a low wall. He wiped the nose of his young son now and then; a boy we had guessed to be about five years old but who the father said was eight. Nearby a group of girls was playing soccer, practising some pretty nifty footwork. Youssef told us that there is a women’s soccer team in Morocco that does quite well.

Youssef asked Keith for some money to pay for food for later, so Keith gave him part of the fee. I was a bit embarrassed at that show of lack of faith in our guide, but I know that not paying until you have received services is what the guide book advises. When Youssef returned, he made a plate of sardine, tomato and onion salad which he offered us. I reminded him that we are vegetarian so he ate the salad alone. During this stop Youssef spent quite a lot of time chatting with his acquaintances. We could not understand what was being said and Youssef did not include us with any translations. About every half hour throughout the day he would ask us ‘Ca va?’ or ‘Happy?’ which after a while began to get on our nerves. He did answer our questions but most of the conversation he initiated was directed at ways to make more money out of us, such as suggestions for him to take us to the desert or on extra trips here and there, or that we should stay with his friend in Marrakesh.

We set off again, this time with the road climbing higher and higher and eventually passing under a short tunnel. The water fell in noisy cascades down below. The rocks were amazing, looking as if they had been neatly laid as bricks. The whole area was an erosion lover’s dream, showing the effects of water and the extremes of temperature. It was late afternoon and any warmth from the sun had long since gone. We climbed up a hill for a view over the village in a valley while Youssef stopped for a rest and a smoke. Just as we climbed down a country bus came along so Youssef flagged it down. It seemed to be full already, but we were wrong since we and a few more passengers further on were squeezed in. It was a mini bus, probably for about fourteen people, but the back area was full of bags of wheat or some such. That did not stop it transporting twenty people including the driver and four children, and a sheep. I couldn’t see anything but Keith was near a window and said that that was just as well, since I wouldn’t have liked the long, steep drops from the road to the valleys below. Youssef chatted to a man beside him all the way.

It was nearly dark when we arrived at our destination of Timetda. Youssef’s friend, another Youssef, also got off, since his family home was there too. We walked across to an earth walled house, beside a spring that fed a pond for animals to drink at and an outlet for people to collect water from. Youssef I (our guide) had told us that we would be staying with his family so we assumed that this was his house. Youssef I told us that Youssef II had invited us for a cup of tea. We entered a little courtyard with buildings around it. An elderly couple was sitting in a little, dark, smoke filled room where the fire was being coaxed into life. We were introduced to them by Youssef II as his grandparents. Next we were taken into a large room where both Youssefs laid out carpets at one end and gave us cushions to sit on and blankets to wrap ourselves in. It was icy cold and even two blankets were not warming me up. A lady and her daughter brought in the tea. I think that she was the widow of an uncle but I am not sure. At this point Youssef I said that we would be staying here, and that it was the same as his family’s house. Youssef II was as student in Amsterdam, studying geology and languages. He worked as a guide and a driver in the holidays and would continue that work when he finished. He spoke English but we spoke French with him at first to include the other Youssef in the conversation. Youssef I said that it would be better if we spoke English so that he could learn it. Youssef II explained that the Rose Valley has excellent examples of different periods of geological history in the rocks, and that the ‘bricks’ we had seen, the tilted sections and the gorge were all of great interest to geologists. Each year tours of geology students come here. He said that there were many Moroccan students at his university in Amsterdam, including some girls.

The two Youssefs offered us a taste of the fig wine that they were drinking; a clear and strong alcohol that they downed in small swigs. They were both smoking kif (hashish), as Youssef I had been doing for much of the day. He had told us that it is good for the health and has no consequences of impairing your judgement such as alcohol does. It just helps you to relax. We had thought of all the studies in Australia that have led to drug testing as well as alcohol testing for drivers, since it does impair judgement. Youssef I is a taxi driver as well as a guide.

It was not quite the evening with a Berber family seeing the way of life that I had expected, since we were apart from the family in a room with just the two guides. I asked about the bread making that Youssef I had mentioned as being something we would see, but it had finished while we were having the tea. We did see the semi-circular earth oven that it was made in and the tray it would have sat on. The bread is round and flat but does have some yeast in it, and is stored in a plastic basket under cloths. A pot of couscous sat ready on a little stove.

The lady brought in an earthenware container full of hot coals to warm the room and Youssef I started to prepare a tajine for our meal. A tajine is the name of a shallow ceramic dish with a conical lid. It sits on a ledge on the pot of coals and is cooked from below, with the steam aiding the cooking. First onions were cooked in a little oil and then spices and salt were added. Meat went in next and was cooked for about a quarter of an hour, being turned over every now and then. The meat was then piled up to make the inner core of a pyramid of vegetables – carrot, potato, green pepper and tomato, which were added according to the length of time that they would take to cook. It seemed to take forever to prepare and even longer to cook, but time goes slowly when you are sitting about listening to other people talking in another language and feeling cold. We asked what the lady had been talking about with them as she used the bellows to heat up our coals. It had been about the two marriage proposals she had received during the past three days and that she had not yet chosen.

I asked Youssef II if there was somewhere that I could put my long johns on under my pants, and he took me by torch light into another room where the lady and her daughter sat around a fire. He shone the torch on me so that I could see what I was doing, and I am sure that he took me into the one warmer room, but it felt strange to be taking off my pants in the presence of others, particularly of a man we had not met, who also came in. It is the only time that I have felt embarrassed to have a spot light on me. Still, I was now so much warmer that it was worth it.

We ate some vegetables from the tajine and a couscous and vegetables dish that the lady had prepared. It was a very nice meal, and we had enjoyed the soft singing of some traditional Berber songs while it cooked. After more tea, it was time for bed, with the blankets and rugs being consolidated on one side of the floor for us to sleep on and under. We asked where the toilet was, and then it was time to sleep. I wore all my clothes, my hat, scarf, gloves and shawl and it was still a while before I warmed up in bed. Keith was cold all night and found sleeping on the floor uncomfortable for his back. I was not so uncomfortable except when I rolled over onto my injured thigh which had quite a few lacerations on it.

El Kalaa des Mgouna, Morocco, Friday January 9th

We slept in a while and then lazed about having showers and typing. It had been a long time since we had had a morning with nothing to do but wait. We had breakfast at 10.30 – a leisurely meal of bread, cheese, jam, juice, tea and coffee. The Kasbah had been built using traditional materials and methods. It was away from other buildings and ringed by mountains. Monayeem had painted a design on the door himself, and efficiently ran every part of the business.

Our couch surfing host arrived a little late, having been on a chat line to a French friend until the wee small hours. He took us to meet his wife and children, since his father was out. His house is enormous, and was recently built once he and his brother each married and produced six children in ten years between them. The old part of the house is now used as a barn for a cow and sheep with lambs. From the rooftop terrace we could see the ruins of the original Kasbah of the village, which had had too many families in it, causing homes to be built outside its walls. Later it ceased to be used at all. The ruins of Kasbahs and mud brick buildings are very picturesque, as they seem to melt away rather than tumble down. Our host’s wife was friendly and gave us some tea and biscuits. We gave the family some apricots and almonds, and showed them photos of our home and family. The three little girls were very sweet, although quite shy at first.

We set off walking to town with our host pushing his motorbike until a taxi with room in it passed by. We were driven off and met our host again at the taxi rank in town. He then found us another taxi, which we all took to the Rose Valley. The taxi driver was called Yousef and was a family connection of our host’s. He was an expert on the Rose Valley, since he lived there, and took trekking tours into it. We stopped along the way to see two Kasbahs, one of which was wanted for transforming into a hotel by some French investors. The locals refused to sell it. Our host had been telling us that we shouldn’t go to Marakesh, that there was nothing much there and that it could be dangerous for us in view of the war. Yousef agreed and they both thought that more time in their area before finishing our travels in Casablanca would be best for us.

Yousef invited us all for a cup of tea at his house, so we ended up there. He showed us how he had been building on more sections to accommodate the tourists who came to explore the valley and go trekking with him. He showed us his book with comments in it and told us of clients who came year after year, and of some who gave him money so that he could continue with his building project. We thought that he was just making conversation, but he put a proposal to us that we go trekking with him for two days in the nearby mountains and gorge, staying overnight with a Berber family and seeing them going about their daily tasks. It was pretty much a hard sell and quite a high price. Our host went over things with him, I think, but we could not understand what was being said. Keith said that we would think about it during the day and Yousef said that if we did that, we may miss out since he would be picking up other tourists and they may take up the offer. We felt that we were being pressured, but it was the sort of thing we would really enjoy and would only take up one extra day. The price seemed high for Morocco, but not unreasonable for us. It was not something that we would ever normally do, and was really stretching our budget, but we did think that it was just the grabbing of the opportunity that was how we had hoped to travel. We were very careful to go over everything that we would be doing, where we would be staying, that all meals would be included, that we are vegetarian and don’t eat meat, chicken or fish, that transport from the Kasbah, and on the final morning to the bus station were included, and that no shopping was on the agenda. I also explained that while I could walk well on the flat and gentle hills, I was not a confident or capable climber.

We left with our host to walk back to Kalaa through the farms and villages. It was a really delightful walk, stepping along the little earth walls that divided the gardens and irrigation channels. Our host is a well educated man who teaches Arabic literature in a secondary school. He told us that the Berber religion, before the arrival of Islam, was a mixture of Jewish and African nature worship, and that the Buddhists that our young guide had told us about could not possibly have been here. He had married his wife after knowing her for three days, and most women have their interests centred on the home, children and animals once they are married. The figs were a legacy of the Arabs, and the Jews had developed a way to distil the figs to make alcohol. He drinks and smokes, as do many Moroccan Muslims. He said that the moderate Moroccan version of Islam does not require them to pray many times a day or to abstain from alcohol and smoking. The Kasbahs were fortified to keep other Berber groups out, but that Berbers were all peaceful. The attacks were made by Berbers desperate for food.

The gardens we walked beside were edged with olive trees and centifolia roses. The petals are harvested over a two month period and sold to a French perfume maker. These days the returns are so low that it is hardly worth harvesting them, however they are the basis of a massive tourist influx for the annual rose festival, so they do bring in revenue that way. The king has recently bought land and planted it with roses, which has led some people to hope that he might be planning to develop a Moroccan perfume industry that could pay better. At any rate, the roses grow simply from cuttings and so the number of plants could be increased quickly if needed.

We scrambled up the hill beside the old Kasbah and walked along the road from that point. It was quite late and cold, and so when a taxi passed, our host hailed it. Back in town, we continued on in the taxi while he collected his motor bike. Unfortunately our taxi driver sailed past our stop, and once he realised it, he told us that he would drop us off on the way back. Once again we thanked our ability to speak French sufficiently to have understood what was happening, because we seemed to drive on and on as night fell. At last the driver turned back and we arrived at our stop. He overcharged Keith, who queried him, but gave the correct change when our host intervened. Our host said it was a case of mistaken calculation ( 8 + 8 = 19).

Keith stayed in the downstairs room at our host’s house, where he was able to use the internet, and our host drove me back to the Kasbah on his motorbike. When we arrived, a Spanish couple, Paula and Ramon, and their guide, Ali, were warming themselves by the fire. They were delightful company and had just come from Marakesh which they had enjoyed visiting. I failed to type up all the days that I was behind on as we chatted and compared experiences. Ali used to be a props man on the movies, and had worked on Mummy 1 and Mummy 2 and other films that I had heard of, but gave it up because of the terrible rate of pay he received. Now he works for a travel company and takes small groups of travellers around Morocco. I didn’t feel quite so guilty at socialising instead of working when Keith arrived and confessed that he had spent a good deal of his time chatting to our host’s brother. Of course, we always prefer to socialise since it is one of the most enjoyable and educational aspects of travel, so neither of us were really feeling guilty at all. We had another delicious meal - soup, a spicy mix of vegetables topped with an egg mix and mandarins – and chatted on with Paula and Ramon. Ali popped in and out and Monayeem was a dignified host, now in western dress, making sure that all was went well.

We set our alarm for quite early, to allow for repacking our bags as we would only be taking our day packs trekking with us and needed to be ready for Yousef, who would come to pick us up at eight a.m.